A Smile as Sweet as Poison by Helena Maeve Page A

“You think so?”
    Dylan met her eyes. “Yeah. I do.” He reached around their plates to cover her hand with his. “You know we like having you here, right?”
    “Sure.”
    “And it’s not just for the hot sex.”
    Hazel grinned. “Speak for yourself.”
    “I know Ward feels the same way,” Dylan insisted, his expression strangely serious, as though he was willing her to understand something important.
    In a heartbeat, Hazel went from anticipation to a sudden curl of dread. She extricated her hand under the pretext of attacking her eggs with fork and knife. “This looks good.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Dylan frown, a blink and miss it kind of slip up.
    “I doubt they’re as good as Marco’s,” he demurred.
    “Modesty doesn’t become you,” Hazel teased. “Suit and tie, though…” She gazed at him suggestively. “That’s giving me all sorts of ideas.”
    “Keep ‘em in mind for tonight—or whenever,” Dylan amended quickly.
    He was good about tolerating her erratic schedule, but not for the first time, Hazel wondered how much of that was genuine and how much was simply politeness. She flashed him a smile. “Tomorrow, I promise.”
    Dylan took a sip of coffee and said, “We’ll make it special.”
    “Oh? What do you have in mind?”
    This was new—flirting over breakfast, teasing each other without consequence. The collar was tucked away in the dresser drawer with the rest of her things and Hazel was once again her own person, forced to navigate between gentle barbs and meaningless innuendo with no crutch and nothing to corral her hang-ups.
    The precarious balancing act only lasted another twenty minutes, before Dylan checked his watch and announced he had to go. He pecked her on the cheek before donning his pinstripe suit jacket and checking his hair in the hallway mirror.
    “Go away, heartbreaker,” Ward groaned, unusually morose.
    “Look who’s talking,” Hazel giggled.
    In his gray suit and black shirt, Ward looked like one of those TV executives—actors too young and too handsome to ever warrant the position in real life. Like them, he had decided to forgo a tie. “Onward to the slaughter,” he intoned, faintly baleful, and pocketed his wallet and sleek, last-generation cell.
    He was almost out of the door when he turned back to kiss Hazel and pinch her ass. She swatted his.
    Ward’s laughter faded down the stairwell with the sound of his footsteps. Dylan was waiting at the bottom. Hazel heard them exchange words, their voices faint and faraway. Then they were gone, the heavy glass door at the foot of the building swinging shut with a dull clang.
    Hazel was left alone, an absurd imitation homemaker to their distinct versions of Don Draper.
    The spare key rested, heavy and cool, in her palm. It would’ve happened anyway, in its own time. She hadn’t forced Dylan’s hand. He wouldn’t have let her.
    With a deep breath, Hazel dragged the steel door shut and locked it. Her first stop was the bedroom and the laptop she’d concealed under the bed.
     
    * * * *
     
    “We’re thinking Hawaii or Aruba for the honeymoon,” Sadie gushed over the counter as she refilled a regular’s mug. “Frank’s not big on sun and sand, but he loves me, so…” She cocked a hip, posing smugly.
    Hazel ducked away before she could be roped into the conversation. The diner was three-quarters empty, normal for this time of the afternoon. As long as she kept her feet moving and her mind on the job, she didn’t have to think about Ward and Dylan coming home in a few hours. Would they like the lasagna she’d made this morning or trash it and order in again?
    With a bright smile and a delivery of conch fritters and onion rings, she chased away the small insecurities that had crept in since the morning hours.
    “Working hard for those extra tips, huh?” Travis murmured as he passed her in the aisle between the rows of red vinyl booths.
    Hazel thinned her lips. “Thought you